


in other words

by sarcangel



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Space, Fluff, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-25 22:21:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17129768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarcangel/pseuds/sarcangel
Summary: sometimes you lose things in space; sometimes you find things.





	in other words

**Author's Note:**

> Much love to Steph and Adri for the last minute assistance, you're both amazing and i appreciate you so much <3 <3 <3  
> i really wanted to break 100k for the year. woot!

“Get _in,”_ he mutters, though the sound of his own voice disappears somewhere down the ship’s corridor. Soldering this fecking filament, practically finer than his own hair, has taken ages - so long that he had to turn his ears down to concentrate. His breath gets tight where it’s held in his chest and he wiggles his hand _just so_ , and it’s finally done.

Niall’s interrupted mid-celebration by the buzzer on his hip: three quick taps, staccato, familiar as a handshake. Biting down a smile, he swivels around.

Louis is standing a yard away, a safe distance if he’s got his hearing low. They learned that the hard way, first time Louis touched his shoulder without knowing and Niall about blacked out.

Louis smiles at him from across the corridor. He looks good, gray uniform hugging his body in all the right ways. He always looks good, it’s a problem.

 _What are you working on?_ he signs. Louis’ accent’s weird today, his hands aren’t moving quite right.

“Fixing this banjaxed speaker,” he nods at the open electrical panel.

Niall looks at his own hands, wipes them on his coveralls. He’s a mess. But his hands are clean enough to turn up his implants, so he does. Sound rushes back: the white noise of the air filtration system, Christmas tunes replaced - for today only - with Louis’ hand-curated playlist, though Arctic Monkeys are currently belting out Last Christmas; proof that sometimes in life you can have the best of both worlds. This is true for other people, in his experience.

“Can’t have a speaker going out on your birthday. Need to make sure everyone will hear your ridiculous announcements.” He wipes his hands again, for good measure. “‘ _It’s three p.m., London-time. Have you told someone you loved them today?’_ ”

“Oi,” Louis starts, pushing himself off the wall.

“Or my personal favorite,” Niall closes the panel, watches its seam disappear completely into the corridor wall. He scans his thumbprint to activate the hallway microphone; has to test his work, after all. “Attention guests! Reminder from your friendly crew that Captain Tomlinson will only be responding to the title of “Birthday King” for the remainder of the day. Please make sure all requests are addressed accordingly.”

His own rough drawl bounces off the walls: another successful repair.

Louis quirks his mouth, he’s got a retort growing there that will only put Niall in deeper -

He gets a half-second’s warning before everything goes to shit. Louis’ eyes go dead gray and Niall’s deaf, suddenly and profoundly. He’s got just enough time to brace himself, before the ship lurches under his feet.

He sees Louis stumble and grab at the wall. There’s a buzzing in his ears, even though it’s impossible, and then everything slides away.

He comes back to himself a little at a time. Something’s freezing, squeezing the back of his neck. He’s on the floor. There’s his legs, splayed awkward on the ground. There’s his feet, attached to his legs. He moves one; they move. It’s good. Sound drifts in, slow and fuzzy.

“Lad, lad. You’re ok.” Louis is crouched in front of him. His hands are cold, has he dipped them in ice? But his eyes are blue again, so he must be able to see. Of course he can, because Niall can hear. Moron. “Fucking solar storms, yeah?”

Louis’ hands are still wrapped around the back of his neck.  His face is nine centimeters away, close enough that Niall can see the spot of beard longer than the rest, at the corner by his right ear.

His throat is dry. “Why are your hands so fucking cold?” he grates out.  

Louis pulls him in for a quick hug. It’s embarrassing, still getting taken out like this. He lets himself sink into it for a few seconds, anyway, before he pushes back. Louis fingers are gentle on his chin, lifting his face up to stare at him for a long moment before he pushes himself up, knees creaking audibly on the way.

“That was impressive,” Niall says, seizing the change of subject. “You’ll sound like me pretty soon.” His ears have stopped ringing, stomach feels alright. All systems go. “Guess you are getting older.”

“Get back to work,” Louis says, straightening his shirt. “I don’t pay you to lounge about like this.”

Turns out he’s still a bit wobbly after all, though not enough to notice. It’s all internal, just a few bones turned to jelly in non-critical places.

“You pay me for plenty of other stupid shite.” He grins and swipes his thumb on the panel again. The music cuts out.

“Don’t -” Louis starts to turn around, looking for the exit.

“Attention guests,” Niall announces. He’s activated all the ship’s speakers this time - seventy-six, in total - as well as the microphones. “Please join me in a round of Happy Birthday for your captain, Louis Tomlinson. On three, two, one…”

There’s the tinny beeps of microphones activating, then a handful of voices clattering through. It’s a wild cacophony, tuneless and cheerful. Niall cranks the volume just as Louis’ heels disappear down the hallway, chased by his laughter.

*******

Louis had a good business model, when he came up with this. Niall saw the job ad on the holo, six months after his feet healed and his ears healed and he was starting to get the itch again. He showed up for the interview, nervous as he’d ever been when Louis looked him over with those electric eyes, not blinking once.

“What happened to you?” he asked, waving Niall into a chair.

The office was tiny, back then - barely a desk and a screen, with an actual paper poster of the moon tacked slanted on the main wall.

“There was an explosion on my ship.” He’d practiced this. With Maura, with Bobby. With his doctors. Saying it without thinking about it.

“Is it your legs?”

“Nah, just the feet.” He tapped one against the floor, hard. “And my hearing. There was enough left, so they were able to -”

Louis pointed to his own eyes, unnaturally bright in the dim office. “I know how that goes. How many years in?”

“Five. Freight gigs, one liner.” The best five years of his life, truth be told; the possibility of getting it back turned his stomach to acid: roiling, excited.

Louis leaned forward on the desk. “Tech level?”

“Seven-C, sir.” He couldn’t help the sir, it was drilled into him at academy.

Louis gave a low whistle. “Seven-C, huh. How long were your runs?”

“Tristan Main. Out and back.”

Louis grunted, leaning back in his chair. “Venus, huh. So, what...nine runs?”

Niall tipped his head in a nod so stiff, he was afraid his head might snap off. “It was the tenth that got me.”

“I’ve got no concerns about the tech, lad, I’ll be honest.”

Relief flooded through him, sharp and surprising; he wanted this more than he thought.

Louis wasn’t done, though. “But can you dance?”

“Excuse me?”

As blunt as he was, Louis’ eyes were soft. “You must have seen the ad, you know what I’m asking for.”

“I can dance,” Niall said, curling his toes in his boots: one at a time, biggest to smallest, just like he learned in therapy. He hadn’t, since - but he hadn’t had reason to, either.

“Then you’ve got the job.” Louis smiled for the first time - a real smile, wide and crinkly.

And that was his chance, and he took it.

***

In the here and now, soapy water pools around his alloy toes. Turns out, you can spill your blood in space - three point three pints of it, specifically, if you get blown up just right - but you can’t get space out of your blood.

The day’s accumulated grime swirls down the shower drain. With December comes lots of things: the Hanukkah Kindle Cruse, Louis’ birthday, A Christmas Chromance - and routine maintenance of the air filtration system. Filthy work, that.

Then he had the faulty wire, and a stopped-up sink in Mrs. Tottingham’s cabin - there was no clog after all, she probably just wanted to see him bent over the pipes. It happens sometimes, though most of their passengers have someone to romance already. The whole point of it, isn’t it? A Christmas Chromance, taking a trip ‘round the moon with your sweetheart. But they do get singles, from time to time - widowers, mostly, since there are plenty of other party cruises for the looking-to-mingle crowd.

“Water off.” He steps out of the shower, watches the mirror defog itself. _Hello, Neil_ appears in the fog, just before it’s burned away. Louis.

Toweling his hair, he makes his way to his sleeping quarters, cool air pebbling his skin. His cabin’s larger than the normal single quarters; Louis insisted on it ( _You do two jobs, Nialler. I’ll give you a double if I want_ ).

Out of habit, his fingers tap the sign on the hallway wall for luck: Welcome to the Alfred’s 74th Voyage.

Seventy-four is not a lot, for a seven day out and back, but it’s enough. Enough for two and a half rotations around the sun, back home; enough for him.

He checks, like always, but he can’t see earth from his bedroom, the angle’s all wrong. The window is tiny, anyway, next to the bed, a queen-sized affair decked out in nautical bedding. The closet’s the big luxury, large enough to walk right in, have coffee with a friend, although its contents are minimal:

Eight uniforms, identical, navy blue. Eight coveralls, identical, gray. Eight suits, as different from each other as he can make it. And a whole wall of socks, like exotic birds perched in their clear slots on the wall. Each sock engineered to provide optimal support to his engineered feet.

He runs his fingers over the shoulders of his suits until he finds the one he’s looking for: picked up last time they were on planet, it’s pink and grey plaid, well-fitted; the perfect combination of vintage and modern. He’s been saving it for tonight. It looks good on him.

The wall clock chimes, a gentle succession of whale sounds. Jesus, he’s been in his thoughts longer than he realized. He’s only got a quarter hour until dinner service. Louis will tease him mercilessly if he’s late.

He sorts himself quickly, doing a big quiff just to see Louis smile and roll his eyes. He might be hopelessly gone, but at least he owns it.

***

Dinner is a wild affair, as it tends to be on a Christmas cruise. It’s toast after toast to the birthday king, who looks fit as hell in a new red jumper. He can’t miss Louis’ eyebrows when he spots Niall across the dining hall, taking his time to look him up and down. Louis grins and gives him a thumbs-up.

 _Nice suit,_ he signs. His fingers flick out again. _Nice blush._

His face goes hot, for real - but he’s got a job to do, he can’t linger on it. He floats between tables, chatting with the guests, flirting with the ones who need flirting. Laura One keeps everyone’s drinks full with robotic efficiency; since her last update, she’s far less likely to deliver rounds of impromptu shots, although tonight calls for it. It’s kind of a shame.

Mr. McNamara’s bending his ear about alien life when Louis walks up from behind.

“Can I borrow my tech?”

Mr. McNamara - Ted - is red-cheeked and affable, clapping Louis firmly on the back. “Of course, of course. Anything for the birthday king.”

Louis winks and steers Niall off a little ways.

“Meant to tell you before but things went to shit. I brought something for my birthday - something special. A surprise, like.”

“Oh?” Niall asks. _Like your tongue in my mouth?_ But it isn’t, it never is.

“Glenlivet, 75 year,” Louis leans in close to whisper, like he’s worried about Ted overhearing. He probably should be, Ted can _drink_.

It’s hard to pay attention, especially with the combined noise of so many voices wreaking havoc on his implant. Louis’ mouth by his ear is going to give him heart palpitations. Mechanotransduction, the hot breath tickling the few outer hair cells that remain, but it feels like an assault: pre-planned, devastating.

“Grand. I got you something, too,” he mutters, fidgeting with a button on his cuff.

“Why Nialler, you didn’t have to do that,” Louis says, with the crinkly smile that always does him in.

“Did so,” he rebuts. “Wouldn’t hear the end of it, otherwise. It’d be our 567th trip out, you’d still be reminding me of the one time I forgot your birthday.”

Louis throws his head back with laughter. “Can’t believe you calculated that out, I’d be - what? thirty-eight?”

“Thirty-nine, factoring in our current average annual cruise rate, as well as the extended vacation you begrudgingly give me in 2145.”

“I will not. Who needs vacation when you have romance and the moon?”

Laura Two is clearing dinner, now. She’ll be bringing out the sweets next, before the dancing.

“After fourteen years, I will - trust me.”

“Anyway, I’ll find you later. Tip one back with me?” He looks hopeful, eyes darting up at Niall through his lashes.

“Of course,” Niall manages, through the enormous hand squeezing his lungs. Louis walks away, pulling Laura One into a half-hug.

A shout goes up when the Lauras wheel out two enormous puddings. He closes his eyes when they light the brandy, the blue flames flicker hot beneath his skin.

*******

Growing up, if anyone had asked him what he wanted to be, dance host on a spaceship was not on the list. But it’s been an easy night, as far as dancing’s concerned. The ballroom looks splendid - Louis just took the Alfred in for an overhaul, and the dancehall got some badly-needed redecoration.

Louis disappears after dinner, like he always does. Niall swallows down his disappointment. Then Mrs. Tottingham asks for a waltz, like she always does, and Mr. McNamara - Tom - asks for a tango. It’s a highlight, seeing the other Mr. McNamara, Angus, fall in love all over again. They beeline out of there, afterwards; hopefully Angus remembers to take his heart meds.

Now Zayn and Wade are the last on the dance floor; they’re a cute couple. Wade pulls out a samba to Hips Don’t Lie, and they start to head out, tangled up in each other.

Wade stops as they pass him, at his table by the double doors.

“Care to join us?” he winks. It’s simultaneously wholesome and filthy, and Niall would be lying if he said he didn’t give it serious consideration for at least heartbeat.

He shakes his head. “Three’s company, in my experience. Have a good night.”

“We will,” Zayn says, and blushes furiously.

It’s all right, being alone. He treasures this time to himself, when he can let his face do whatever it wants.

“You gonna pack it in?”

He turns, though he doesn’t need to - he knows that voice. Louis’ standing there, looking terribly amused. He shuffles his feet a little, waiting for Niall to respond.

“Can’t, can’t I? Ballroom’s open until midnight.”

Louis drifts closer. “It’s quarter-’til, Niall, you could bend the rules.”

“Got a tough boss. Though he’s also a gobshite, to be fair. Can’t be slacking off.”

Then Louis is right in front of him, no pretense about it. He’s still in that damn birthday jumper, hair looking soft, face looking soft. Lauryn Hill croons over the speakers, and she’s right - sometimes it _is_ too good to be true, because Louis’ mouth is moving, and so are his hands, and they’re both saying the same thing:

 _May I have this dance_?

Niall swallows. His heart’s beating through him like a wild bird.

“Louis -” he starts to protest, but he’s already moving in closer.

Louis frowns. “Everyone else gets a turn, plus it’s -“

“Your birthday,” Niall finishes. “As if everyone in the galaxy doesn’t know it.” He shifts closer, Louis drawing him in like gravity. The yellow light - how Louis found lights that look like old-school incandescents is beyond him - makes a warm reflection in his bionic eyes.

“Wait for it,” Louis says, holding up a finger.

There’s a soft whoosh, like the ventilator system kicks on - and then everything’s lighter: his feet, his head, his aching hip that still bites at him sometimes when he twists wrong. Louis takes advantage of his surprise, grabbing his hand and pulling Niall in the rest of the way.

Louis hand is warm this time, as Niall squeezes his fingers. “Did you? Half-grav, really?”

“What use is it, being birthday king? And, you know, owning a spacecraft, if I can’t push all of the fancy buttons sometimes?”

Louis wraps his other hand around Niall’s waist and it’s hard not to shiver. He doesn’t know what to say, so he puts his free hand on Louis’ shoulder.

Louis’ eyebrows fly up. “Really? You’re going to let me lead?”

He shrugs as best he can, tangled up the way they are. “You’d probably try, anyway - this way we won’t fight over it.”

“True, true. Let me just -“ he waits a few beats, until the chorus kicks in.

He pulls Niall into a foxtrot, feet making quick squares, boxing them in. Niall raises his eyebrows, never would have guessed Louis for a formal dance.

“What? Mum made me take ballroom dancing. Forgot most of it, but I always liked this one.”

“Such a romantic,” Niall teases. Louis squeezes his hip, guides him into a gentle turn.

At half-grav, they could probably spin for hours like this, wound loosely around each other like potato vine. But he’s starting to get that swoopy feeling, and from this close Louis will be able to see it all over him. He makes his face carefully blank, tightens his hand on Louis’ shoulder, and tightens the turn; speeds it up, until they’re spinning wildly across the deserted dance floor.

Louis whoops into the empty ballroom, pulling Niall closer to keep his feet - which is funny, funny enough to drive away Niall’s jitters for a few more minutes.

It’s quiet for a stretch; their foxtrot devolves into a half-ass waltz. Lauryn turns into Etta, who turns into Mapei. Louis hums along, not noticing or not caring that their chests are pressed together; whatever frame they had collapsed somewhere along the way.

At five to midnight, Fly Me to the Moon comes on, like it does every night. Louis shakes with laughter - it rumbles through Niall’s chest, too short and too long.

At twelve sharp, the music shuts off and the lights come up.

“It’s closing time,” Niall says, stepping back. “Happy birthday.”

Louis smiles and lets him go. “Thank you for the dance.”

***

Gravity goes back to normal just as his door is sliding closed. The lock snicks, his shoulders sag, all his cells are standing on end, wanting to sing from the figurative rooftop. He’s just slid into his pajama bottoms when there’s a knock at the door. It’s ridiculously old-fashioned; who needs help at this hour? If it’s Mrs. Tottingham again with a frivolous complaint -

But it’s Louis waiting, when the panel slides open to the corridor.

“Forgot something,” he says, looking sheepish.

Niall racks his brain, spies the bottle in his hand. “Oh, the whiskey.” Right.

“Yes, that, obviously. And also…” He scrubs his toe against the floor. “Can I come in?”

“Of course.” He stands aside to let Louis in.

Louis pulls out the single stool at the tiny countertop that separates the kitchenette from the living space, while Niall pulls some glasses out of the cabinet. The clink of the bottle on the countertop is loud, as Louis slides it over.

“Yum.” Niall inhales, pours out a measure of pale gold for each of them.

“Toast?” Louis asks.

Niall raises his eyebrows. _Have at it_ , he signs.

Louis rolls his eyes. “Make me do a toast on my own birthday?”

Niall points at the clock, stubbornly set to London time. “Not your birthday anymore, is it?” But he capitulates, and lifts his glass. “There are good ships, and wood ships -” Louis groans. “The ships that sails the sea. But the best ship is our ship, and may it always be.”

“Here, here,” Louis lifts his glass. They drink. Louis grabs the bottle and pours another round, pushes the glass to Niall.

“Your toast,” Niall says, leaning over the countertop.

“Drink first. Trust me.” Louis gives him earnest dog eyes, and he can’t say no.

The second dram goes down like the first, peaty and sweet in equal measure. It’s a good whiskey. Louis pushes his stool back, comes around the island to stand in front of Niall.

“Now for mine. To my robot eyes,” he starts, taking the glass out of Niall’s hand. Which definitely isn’t shaking, not shaking at all.

“That’s an odd toast.” His voice is even, thank christ.

“You’re such a faker,” Louis says, reaching up to trace a finger over Niall’s throat, resting it on the pulse point there. “I can see, you know - when your heart rate speeds up.” Niall swallows against the light pressure of Louis’ hand. He moves his thumb up, against Niall’s lower lip. “When I get close and your breathing changes. You can exhale, you know.”

“Can’t,” Niall croaks out, over Louis’ thumb.

“Can.” Louis leans in the rest of the way.

His lips are a little dry. He tastes like smoke and vanilla and the sharp tang of booze and longing. They break apart, and it’s too soon; it wasn’t enough. He expects Louis to pull back, but he doesn’t. He just curls his hands around Niall’s neck and pulls him back in, back in, back in.

“Good?” Louis asks. His face is pink and he’s breathing hard. His eyes are huge and sparkling in the low light; they’ve never been more beautiful.

“Good.” Niall dips back in.

Louis’ lips are slick, now, and his tongue is hot, it burns everything else away. There’s no space, no ship full of aging passengers or stopped-up sinks - just Louis and the sound he makes when Niall scrapes his teeth against his throat; the rough surge of his breath, big gasps that ruffle the tiny hairs on Niall’s neck; the sweet pressure of his leg sneaking its way between Niall’s.

If the moon floats past the window, later, when they’re curled up in Niall’s nautical sheets - then it’s just a fucking rock, isn’t it, only really something when the light hits it right.

 

[come say hi on tumblr :)](https://dinoflangellate.tumblr.com/post/181364547803/pairing-nouis-rating-teen-words-3759-baby)


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